


This Could Be Our Meet Cute

by Grinner_H



Series: 15 a Piece Prompt Challenge [19]
Category: Finder no Hyouteki | Finder Series, Katekyou Hitman Reborn!
Genre: Alternate Universe, Crossover, F/M, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-10
Updated: 2016-03-10
Packaged: 2018-05-25 21:17:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,415
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6210439
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Grinner_H/pseuds/Grinner_H
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>For Prompt #124 - <i>Teamwork</i> (selected by <b><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ashida">Ash</a></b> from <b><a href="http://insane-1.deviantart.com/art/200-Writing-Challenge-68163506">200 Writing Challenge</a></b>).</p>
    </blockquote>





	This Could Be Our Meet Cute

**Author's Note:**

> For Prompt #124 - _Teamwork_ (selected by **[Ash](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ashida)** from **[200 Writing Challenge](http://insane-1.deviantart.com/art/200-Writing-Challenge-68163506)** ).

The first time is a cliché - a run-down motel in Kingman, a room that smells like shit and cigarettes and discolored wallpaper. 

They fuck on a too-narrow bed - the kind that sags uncomfortably in the middle, the kind with the bad springs and gaudy sheets. 

Bianchi - amid flickering fluorescent and broken air conditioning - is cloying summer heat and the scent of jasmine. She has her back to his gaze, her knees on either side of his thighs, her sweaty grip around his shins as if she’s trying her utmost to pin him in place.

Asami is surprised to discover that he doesn’t mind this. 

Not when she’s got her fine hair pulled over her left shoulder, affording him an unobstructed view of baby-smooth skin over the curve of a deceivingly delicate spine. 

Not when he’s got his thumb caressing the tiny heart tattooed on her ass, his fingers bruising the flesh of her hip. 

Not when she’s riding him backward like this, incontinent abandonment and avaricious desire.

She looks back at him, casts a sultry gaze over the cap of her right shoulder like a well-trained coquette. Her hips do not cease their relentless rhythm. Her cunt is slick around his cock.

_"Does he ever ride you like this?"_

Asami likes it - that smolder of cunning in the emerald of her eyes, her raiment of conceit as if she’s long known the answer to her own question ere it was asked. 

His responding smirk is tinted with concession and hubris. "You _know_ he doesn’t."

He lifts his hips, thrusts hard into the moist heat of her and is duly pleased in the resultant moan, the slipping grip on his legs, the hard clench of her around him. "Does _he_ ever fuck you like this?"

Bianchi shoots him a look that is both dirty and illecebrous. "You _know_ he doesn’t."

The first time is muted porn on the TV, a suitcase filled with guns and vials of arsenic beneath the bed, the jerk and sway of their bodies reflected in the vanity mirror, and the startling knowledge of mutual understanding.

—

 _It probably should have began this way,_ Asami thinks, fingers sliding into pale pink strands, lips and tongue questing the soft flesh in the space between Bianchi’s breasts. 

Her nails make themselves at home along the hard lines of his muscled back. Her legs facilely find their way around his waist.

Asami presses her against the gritty wall of a poorly-lit warehouse in San Donato; presses into her in a way that tears a loud moan from her sanguine lips, a low growl from his.

He can feel her nails denting his flesh and thinks about the scars they’ll leave later - half-moons amid rivulets of sweat. 

It’s an aberrant thing - how perfectly they fit together. 

He fits against her - _inside_ her - better than he ever has with Akihito, with Mikhail, with anyone he’s ever fucked. 

Asami doesn’t try to make sense of how good - how _right_ \- this feels; blood and sweat and grime on their bodies, fucking amid enemy corpses littered upon the warehouse floor like half-smoked cigarettes and bullet shells.

The metallic stench of blood and gunpowder hangs thick in the air that’s charged like electricity. 

Bianchi looks at him with mad, mad eyes and a too-loud smile. 

It makes Asami want to shut her up with the hard clamp of his teeth around the plump peak of her nipple. 

She tears the skin from his back. Eyes for eyes. One broken soul for another.

The consequence is the raised pitch of her voice, the hissed pleasure of his; threading together seamlessly in this roaring silence. 

_It should have began like this,_ Asami realizes, high off the heat and feel and scent of her.

It should have began with carnage as foreplay, without the entanglement of emotions best left unidentified.

—

She comes to him one day with a warning - one he’d anticipated the moment she’d caught him looking at Gokudera the way he always only looked at _her._

_"Stay away from my brother."_

Her tone is accusatory, a death sentence for a crime he has yet to commit. Her gaze upon him is impenetrable black ice. 

Asami leans against the doorcase of his Kanagawa hotel room; feigns nonchalance, ignores the currents of excitement that thrill up and down his spine like bullets, the rapid hardening of his cock.

He _likes_ her like this. Intense. _Dangerous._ Every muscle in her body tensed like a tightly coiled spring. 

Asami can’t wait to witness the sudden snap, the brilliant explosion. He’s seen her mad before, but this is the first time she’s truly mad at _him._

He straightens and reaches for her, brushes the pad of his thumb against the corner of her lip. "I’m not into irascible punk kids who can’t shut the fuck up."

Bianchi steps into his space, presses her mouth to his ear. _"Liar."_ Then, a step backward. Eyes that glitter with anger and amusement. "Do not take me for a fool, Ryuuichi. We both know you like ‘em young." 

Her voice is honeyed atter, lethal and sweet. 

Asami wants Bianchi on her knees, her wicked mouth on his cock; right here in the open doorway. Witnesses be damned.

He wonders if she can read his thoughts through the heat of his gaze. He wants to say, _Let’s fuck,_ but that would be too telling. 

Instead, he says this. 

_"If it had been **him** on the Arizona job, I’d have fucked him too."_

The muzzle of her gun is shoved under his chin before he even noticed her move. Her breath fans hot against his skin, her eyes unwaveringly hold his. "Say that one more time," she goads, one long-fingered hand traveling over the visible bulge in Asami’s pants; a threat, a tease, a _promise._ "Say it again and I’ll _castrate_ you."

He knows that she means every word, just as _he_ had when he said he’d fuck her brother. They are both beings of few scruples and recalcitrant pride.

Asami circles an arm around her tiny waist, crushes her against him, presses his sneer to her ugly-pretty mouth. 

They drink from each other like snarling dogs, like thieves of innocent hearts. 

_Want._

_Take._

_**Have.** _

Bianchi bites his tongue, shoves him away with shockingly brutal force. Her eyes are deep lakes of dark jade, sparking with rage, desire, _possessiveness;_ though it’s unclear just _who_ exactly she’s possessive _of._ "Stay away from Hayato, Ryuuichi. You’re no good for him."

Asami smirks around the taste of his own blood. "And I’m good enough for _you?_ "

Bianchi scoffs - this light, airy thing that makes her sound cultured and uncouth all at once. "You’re no good for _anyone._ "

She turns to leave, shoots him a come-hither look over her shoulder that sends bolts of pleasure straight to Asami’s cock. "But I am the only one who’s immune to your brand of poison."

He watches her walk away, valiantly restrains the urge to follow.

—

It is in a safehouse in Thesprotia that he realizes just how far he’s fallen.

Bianchi is elegantly perched on the sturdy, wooden kitchen tabletop, gloriously naked but for the silly charm bracelet encircling her left wrist, a single stiletto hanging off the edge of her dainty toes. 

In her grip, a bottle of Femme de Champagne 2000 upended, its contents emptied upon her immaculate skin. 

Asami follows the stream from the valley of her heavy breasts to her trembling belly; tongue rolling obscenely around her navel, before dipping into the liquid that’s pooling within the cup of her tightly-held-together thighs. 

He greedily drinks from her, licks every drop from the hairless mound of her cunt. 

Her hands scrabble for purchase in his hair, fingers curl harsh against his scalp - a sign of desperation. She holds him there, somewhere between pulling him closer and shoving him away.

It makes Asami’s mouth quirk into something feral against her skin. He pushes her - ungentle as ever - farther along the length of the table. 

The shoe slips off her toes. Her bracelet clinks against the wood. Her legs part in tacit invitation. 

Asami lowers his head between her thighs. It’s an uncomfortable position - curving his spine like this - but his feet are still on the linoleum, and it’s better than being on his knees. 

He inhales her distinctly feminine scent, tongue intruding into the wet folds of her. 

Bianchi’s pleasured gasps are like a joyous song in the darkness of their world, the nails digging into his scalp are cruel, unrelenting.

Asami loves this part of her - the way she’s never afraid to _take._

The way she’d unapologetically tear the hair from his head, or shred the skin from his back; unhesitatingly sink nails and teeth into his flesh.

He loves that arrogant smirk, the way her beguiling eyes never lie even when her mouth always does, the way she’d burn the clothes off his body with her poison caress. 

How she never _cries._ Never _begs._ Only _demands, demands, demands._

Asami runs his tongue over her soft clit in one long swipe, draws incoherent sounds from her lips. The hold in his hair tightens, but in one swift, sudden motion, Asami pulls away, draws back to simply look at her.

Bianchi’s glare is part-dazed, mostly scathing. She is obviously pissed that he’s stopped. "What the _fuck,_ Ryuuichi?!"

And Asami has no answer. He doesn’t understand this unexplainable urge to just _look_ at her, to drink all of her in, burn her image - debauched and aggressive and so goddamn _beautiful_ \- into his corneas. 

So he says nothing. Merely pulls her to the edge of the table, tucks his hand beneath the hair at her nape and whispers against her ear, _"Let’s fuck."_

Bianchi’s response is a momentarily startled, confused stare; hurriedly masked with a wicked grin. 

A nanosecond of weakness, but Asami doesn’t miss it. It makes heat flare something violent in his bones. His heart beats too furiously. His cock throbs with insatiable need.

And this is what he loves about her. 

The sweet and filthy way she spreads herself open for him - part enchantress, part alley whore.

"Let’s fuck," she echoes, fingers sliding into the moistness of her cunt. She slides them out, brings them to her lips and licks them clean, sucks them as if they were a cock.

And then she’s hooking her leg around his waist, heel digging ruthlessly into his spine, drawing him closer. 

Asami slams into her wet warmth, all rough hands and rough breath; vicious and wanting.

 _It’s been three years since Arizona,_ Asami realizes. Three years since they first fucked.

It’s the longest commitment he’s ever had to someone he doesn’t love.

—

This is one of those days - the kind that isn’t supposed to be bad but _is,_ the kind that’s got him trying to make sense of that disturbing, hollow sensation deep within his mind, his gut, his _heart._

This - whatever the hell _this_ fucking _is_ \- is _not_ how it’s supposed to go. 

Asami stands with his head bowed, a deep frown emblazoning itself upon the point between his brows. His mouth thins into a straight, displeased line. His fingers curl against the damp bathroom wall.

Warm water runs down his nape, his back. It is pleasant, but does nothing to ease the vacant feeling in his chest - as if his heart isn’t there at all, wasn’t there to begin with. 

He is within the confines of the shower of his private jet. He’s headed to Constanța, _alone._

And _Bianchi._

The very thought of her churns something dark and atrabilious in his gut. 

For Bianchi is in Dogana with her former lover, assigned to annihilate the threat that is the Tomassini Famiglia. 

Asami thinks about a deep, dispassionate voice, of calculating eyes staring at him from beneath the shadowed brim of a fedora, and it makes his blood pulse with a sickening, envious _rage._

He thinks about arms which aren’t his around Bianchi’s slender frame, a smirk that isn’t his against the shell of her ear. It makes him want to punch a hole through the wall. 

_What is this feeling?_ Asami wonders, curious and disgusted all at once. 

He’s never begrudged her her share of lovers before. It never mattered then, they were both fucking others even while they were - were - 

Were _what,_ exactly? _Comrades?_ _Lovers?_

Asami doesn’t know what the word is for whatever the _fuck_ they are - whatever they _have_ \- and somehow, that notion irritates him. 

Somewhere between one hit and the next, Asami _knows_ that Bianchi has turned into something that’s more than just a casual fuck.

The warmth of the shower. The scent of his soap. The way the heat fogs up the glass. Inexplicably, they all remind him of _her._

Asami reaches for himself, hissing at the contact of his fingers curling around his cock. He thinks about the taste of her that’s tattooed upon his tongue; imagines her lips, her teeth, her hands all over. He imagines taking her from behind; her breasts pressed against the misted glass, her fingers forging a ruthless rhythm within her cunt.

He imagines - _wishes_ \- that she’s _here,_ and he hates her a little more, a little less for making him believe that.

—

How does it all end and begin again, within the space of a single moment?

Asami believes that such a thing should not be possible, yet it is so with her.

This seemingly endless _push-pull-goodbye-start over_ game that makes up the Möbius Strip of their lives. 

Akihito used to tell him - _still_ does, often - that he should learn to be more honest. With others, mostly with himself. 

But Asami despises the bitterness that honesty leaves in his mouth, the vulnerability it creates in his carefully constructed world.

Loath as he may be to admit it, Asami doesn’t quite _get_ honesty. Or happiness. Or whatever crazy concept that Akihito tries to talk him into near-daily.

But what he _does_ understand is _crave._

_Need._

_Relief._

And that is what he feels, stepping through the bedroom doorway in his lonely Namimori apartment, finding her curved upon the covers of his bed in nothing but rose petals and lingerie, like a scene out of those horrible romcoms Miura’s addicted to.

 _"Happy happy birthday, baby,"_ Bianchi croons, slipping out of her lacy black bra; slipping out of his bed and into his arms.

Asami likes to think that he doesn’t _understand_ love, but he understands _this._

That - within the space of a single moment - this is their end, restarted.


End file.
